A Time to Mourn
by LuthienThranduillion
Summary: At the Anniversary of Boromir's death, Aragorn and Faramir make a pilgrimage to Parth Galen in his memory. Written for Memorial Day.


_Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, its characters, and lands are the property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinemas. This story was not written for profit, but for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of my readers._

_Summary: At the Anniversary of Boromir's death, Aragorn and Faramir make a pilgrimage to Parth Galen in his memory. Written for Memorial Day._

_Authour's Note on Characters: In my fanfiction, the majority of the characters look as they are portrayed in the movie, but *my* Faramir and Boromir have the raven hair, grey eyes, and carven features from the books._

_Authour's Note on Content: This story, like all of my other stories, contains NO slash or extremely explicit sexual scenes._

_**WARNINGS: **__Flashbacks containing mild violence, grief. __**RATED K.**_

A Time to Mourn

By Luthien Celebrindal

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_"For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven...A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a time to dance..."_

_~Ecclesiastes 3:1,4_

The cold, February wind blew through the streets of Minas Tirith. A lone figure stood in the tower, his grey eyes travelling over the lands of Gondor, to the faint, blue-green line on the horizon which was the Great River, Anduin.

It went along its silent, undisturbed way from the north, to Tol Brandir, and over Rauros falls, down through Gondor, to the City of the Stars, Osgiliath. What was once a great city was now in ruins.

Many, many things were changed by the War of the Ring, many great and beautiful things lost or decimated. Many hearts broken.

Such were the thoughts of Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Arnor, as he stood there, his cloak wrapped around himself against the chill wind. His was one of those hearts. From his place on the tower, he could see the place on the river he had seen his beloved older brother for the last time, in an elven boat travelling to the sea. For a while, he had held some hope that it was but a vision, but as time passed, he knew that it was indeed that Boromir had passed beyond the circles of this world.

Faramir's eyes were bright with tears. In three weeks, it would be one year to the date since his brother's death; the twenty-sixth of February. A cold time of year, a cruel time.

But Faramir did not mind it. The winter sun shone above him, and he blinked back the tears in his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. Boromir had never been able to see the sun rise over the White City again, after the darkness had lifted. He had never seen the White Tree blossom.

Faramir wiped a tear from his cheek and left the tower.

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A soft knock at Aragorn's door made him raise his head from the paperwork he was going over. Nothing of much interest, only reports from the different lands of Gondor, and a few from other lands. He was glad to be relieved of it. "Enter," he said, pushing a report from Lebennin aside.

As the door opened, he was surprised to see Eowyn standing there, a concerned expression on her face.

Aragorn stood up. "What is the matter?" he asked, his brow knitting in worry, "Are you well?" Eowyn was four months from giving birth to Faramir's child, and had taken ill a few weeks ago. The poor Steward was nearly frantic with worry then, but Eowyn seemed to have recovered well enough.

The face of the Steward's wife was drawn when she spoke. "Yes," she said, "It is not myself that I am worried about. It is Faramir."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "Faramir?" he inquired, hurrying over, "What has happened?" He felt his heartbeat quicken. It had been months since their ordeal, but the Steward still had not fully healed. Yes, he was almost recovered, but not quite yet. Had Faramir overexerted himself and relapsed, Aragorn did not know if he could survive.

Eowyn noticed his concern. "It is nothing like that," she said, knowing that Aragorn blamed himself somewhat, "I'm not quite certain how to put it, though. I suppose he just simply hasn't been himself for a few days."

"What do you mean?" Aragorn asked, confused at this.

"He has not eaten a full meal or come to bed in nearly a week," Eowyn replied, "And he seems... distant; detatched."

Aragorn nodded slowly. He frowned. This was unlike Faramir. Very unlike him. He'd expected Faramir to become despondant after their ordeal, yet it had been the exact opposite. He'd never seen Faramir so at ease and in a general good mood. "I'll speak to him later," he said, "I wouldn't worry."

Eowyn nodded without a word, and left the room. She hoped that he would find out what was wrong. She couldn't bear to see Faramir so unhappy.

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Aragorn leaned back in his seat in the garden, waiting for Faramir to arrive. He'd asked his Steward to meet him that evening for a talk, not saying the purpose. Faramir was still slightly out of the ordinary. Perhaps, had he known there were personal matters involved, he would have excused himself, saying he had another arrangement. Even after all they'd gone through together, Faramir was still reserved, though not painfully so as he had been before, and he'd lost the stiff, uncomfortable formality.

An uneven footfall told him of Faramir's arrival. He winced at the sound; ever since Faramir's brutal treatment, he'd had a terrible limp. Even after Faramir's many assurances that he blamed none of it on Aragorn, the King still felt that it was at least partially his fault. Besides, his shoulder wound from the Ring War was clearly hurting him again, though he denied it each time he was asked after.

"You wished to speak with me, my lo-" Faramir broke off, and corrected himself, "Aragorn."

It took a bit of getting used to for him to call his liege lord by his given name.

Aragorn smiled at him. He was still rather awkward, he noted. But not nervous anymore. There was none of the anxiety and fear in his eyes. "Yes," he said, "Sit down, please, Faramir."

Faramir complied readily, favoring his right leg. Once seated, he relaxed. "What did you wish to ask me?"

Aragorn sighed. "There is something of importance I need to know," he said, "Eowyn told me you seem to be unhappy lately."

He met Faramir's eyes, which darkened as the Steward turned away, a grieving expression on his face. "It is nothing," he replied in a quiet tone.

Obviously to Aragorn, he didn't wish to talk about it. But this would not satisfy the King. "Please tell me," he said, "As a Healer, and as a friend, I can't simply let you slip into despond without knowing why."

Faramir met his eyes again, his own bright with unshed tears. "It is nothing that can be helped. It is simply this... this time of year." He looked down, his raven hair falling down over his face. He raised his head and pushed it aside, a slightly pleading expression on his face.

A realization dawned in Aragorn's mind as he remembered what had happened one year ago.

_He heard the loud, clear call of Boromir's horn from the seat at Amon Hen, and he knew that the man was in danger. The sound rang through the air with a desperate twinge to it. _

_Aragorn ran down the hill as quickly as possible, only to find that he was too late. _

He placed a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "I understand," he said, quietly.

Faramir turned to him, slightly bewildered, having forgotten for a moment that it had been Aragorn who had been with his brother when he died. "I know," he said, "And I have accepted it. But..." he paused, turning away again, then turning back. "It has been a whole year since it happened. One year exactly, in a few days. I can't simply continue with my life like that."

Aragorn sighed. "I know you can't, Faramir," he said, "It is perfectly reasonable. You've reminded me of something I wished to do. And I think it would be good for you to come with me."

Faramir cocked his head. "What is it?" he asked.

Aragorn gave him a solemn look. "A pilgrimage," he explained, "To Amon Hen. In rememberance of our fallen brother."

Faramir blinked back a few tears. "I do not know..." he said, "You do not have to bring me. It is nothing that I will not get over in a few weeks."

Aragorn clasped his shoulder tightly. "You may, but I think the trip would do us both a great deal of benefit. We both need to get out of the city. And I think you should know more."

Faramir nodded. "I suppose you are right," he sighed. "I wish that I would not have burdened you with myself, though."

Aragorn closed his eyes. "Faramir, you are not a burden. There is nothing burdensome about you. Please do not think that way. Besides, you are in no condition to go without food or rest."

Faramir met his eyes, slightly anxious. "Eowyn spoke to you, I presume?" he asked, wincing.

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, she did. And she has a right to be worried," he replied, firmly. "You're still not fully healed, and neglecting yourself will do no good to anyone, but it will harm you."

"I know you are telling the truth," Faramir squeezed his eyes shut, a stray tear trailing down his cheek. "But I don't have the heart to eat or sleep right now. Every time I shut my eyes, I dream of his death."

The Steward's shoulders shook as he began to sob, and his fingers, gripping the arms of his chair, trembled.

Aragorn sighed, deeply. He squeezed Faramir's hand, then put his arm around the younger man's shoulders. "It is alright," he said, "You've held back your tears for too long. There is no shame in tears, especially if they are for a brother's death."

Faramir's defenses collapsed, and he leaned his head against Aragorn's shoulder, for once mindless of his usual formality.

Aragorn felt a few tears of his own prick his eyes. He gripped Faramir's shoulder comfortingly.

Faramir drew back, having composed himself, relieved that he'd finally let out the tears he'd held back since he'd learned of Boromir's death. He was surprised at Aragorn, for his father had always told him that tears were a sign of weakness. But, then, Aragorn was far different from Denethor. "I... I am sorry if I appear impulsive," he said, nonetheless.

Aragorn smiled sadly. Faramir still had scars that needed healing, both physical and mental, from his time under Denethor's strict leadership. "Nay, Faramir, you did not offend me at all. You have a right to your tears, and to the grief you feel. But it cannot consume you to the point that you endanger your health."

Faramir nodded. "I know," he relaxed some, leaning back. "I think that this journey is a good idea."

Aragorn gave his shoulder a last comforting squeeze. "I knew that you would. Come, we must leave today so that we can reach Amon Hen by the twenty-sixth."

He stood, and helped Faramir to his feet. Faramir, unlike what both his brother and father would have done, allowed the help, and was grateful for it. "Thank you, my... Thank you, Aragorn."

"Any time, Faramir, any time," Aragorn released his hand. "I will meet you outside the stables, if that is alright."

Faramir smiled, the look out of place on his tear-stained features. "Yes, that will suit. I will only pack a few things, then meet you there." He stepped backwards, but Aragorn waved him off.

"Go. No need for senseless etiquette here among friends," he said.

"Very well," Faramir replied, turning and limping back to his own chambers to pack his things.

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Soon, King and Steward were mounted on their steeds, Roheryn and Feanor, and were riding out of the city gates. Their wives had sent them off, with Arwen telling them, "This time, please try to avoid any mishaps."

Aragorn had nodded, and smiled, leaning down to kiss her. "We will," he had said.

Now they rode out onto the field. Aragorn occasionally glanced over at Faramir, to see how he was managing. Much to his relief, the Steward didn't seem to have any problem riding horseback.

They made good progress, and had stopped to camp. Faramir was quiet and withdrawn, but Aragorn had become used to that. And, especially now, he had no reason to be talkative and cheerful.

But there was something about the way he was staring intently into their campfire that disquieted Aragorn.

He stood and made his way over to him. "Is something wrong, Faramir?" he asked.

Faramir turned away from the flames and shook his head. "Nothing more than usual," he said.

But Aragorn knew better. "Now, you needn't hide anything," he told him, sitting down on the log next to his friend. "There is something bothering you."

Faramir nodded. "Yes," he sighed, "It is only memories, though. Things that cannot be helped."

His gaze returned to the campfire involuntarily, and he shuddered. Aragorn suddenly knew what he was thinking about. "Should I douse it?" he asked.

"What?" Faramir turned to him, confused, then back to the fire, his mind making the connection, "Oh. No, no," he shook his head. "You needn't do that. It is nothing. Usually I would not spare such a small flame a second thought. But now... now the memories are too close. And with the memories of my brother's death come the memories of the death of my father."

He bit his lip, continuing to stare into the flames.

Aragorn sighed. "I can understand," he said, "It is hard to put things such as that behind you. Some say that the past is in the past, but oftentimes the past haunts us in the present. Neither you nor I will ever fully live without anticipation of attack, even though the war is over." He put a comforting arm around his Steward's shoulders.

Within a few minutes, they had retired, alternating watching throughout the night, for they couldn't be sure that there would be none of the remaining servants of the enemy looking to catch them unawares.

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The night had passed without incident, as had the others. Their journey progressed swiftly, and soon they had reached the banks of the Anduin. There they had stopped, and Faramir stared into the swiftly flowing blue-green water as it wove its way towards the sea.

He felt Aragorn's hand on his shoulder, but he didn't turn.

"The place is less than a day's travel upriver," Aragorn told him, his voice quiet. "Beyond the falls of Rauros." He pointed upriver, and Faramir turned, seeing plumes of white vapour, and hearing the distant thundering of a waterfall.

"Let us go, then," Faramir prompted, taking Feanor's reins in his hand and beginning to follow the riverbank.

It was not yet dusk when they turned back to the river, having turned away so they could pass Rauros. They continued walking for some time, until Aragorn halted, gazing along the riverbank. "This is the place," he said quietly. "Parth Galen."

Immediately, he was swept back into his memories.

_Boromir's body was placed in one of the elven boats, the many arrows still in his body. Aragorn placed his sword, shield, and cloven horn with him. _

_He, Legolas, and Gimli sent the boat down the river, watching until it disappeared over the falls. _

_Then they turned away. There was no time to stop and mourn; they had to go after the halflings._

"Aragorn?" Faramir looked over at him.

Aragorn met his Steward's eyes. "I was only thinking," he said, and Faramir nodded in understanding. "Do you wish to go further?"

Faramir took a breath and swallowed, then nodded. The realization that he was in the place where his brother had died was overwhelming.

Aragorn gripped the younger man's shoulder comfortingly. "Come, then," he said, and they went into the woods.

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The two friends sat at the top of the falls, the thundering of the water in their ears, and spray rising up about them. Aragorn was watching Faramir nervously. He stared blankly into the spray. The fingers on his right hand were twitching, a sure sign of anxiety.

"Faramir..." he muttered, unsure of how to begin.

The Steward turned to him. Aragorn realized that his eyes were red and puffy. "Yes, Aragorn?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

_He has been crying,_ Aragorn thought, inwardly grimacing, _I could not hear it over the roar of the falls. _

He tactfully concealed the recognition, but not before Faramir noticed. "I am sorry," he muttered, choking on the words as he began to cry again.

"Oh, Faramir!" Aragorn held him close as he cried shamelessly into the King's shoulder. "I have told you already there is no shame in tears."

Faramir went limp in his arms, his thin body shaking, and Aragorn realized how undernourished he was. "There, Faramir," he said, his voice low and soothing.

Faramir closed his eyes. He had been waiting his entire life for someone to hold him and comfort him as he cried out all of his tears. He had wished so many times for his father to do just this, but Denethor saw tears as a weakness. Many a night after his mother's death, Faramir had cried himself to sleep, clutching a pillow tightly. He'd gotten over his grief eventually, but Boromir's death had sent him into a new despair, and he had remained that way until the end of the War. But by that point, Denethor's madness was full-fledged, and he got no comfort from him, only scorn.

His recovery had been aided greatly by Eowyn, who had given him, in a way, something to live for. And his and Aragorn's 'vacation,' though dastardly it had turned out, had caused him to find a friend in Gondor's new King.

At last, he drew back, his tears spent.

"How are you?" Aragorn asked, worriedly.

Faramir met his gaze, genuine honesty reflected in his grey eyes. "I feel as though a great weight has been lifted off of my heart," he said solemnly. "Thank you, Aragorn. For bringing me here, for telling me of Boromir's last moments, and his redemption. And thank you..."

He looked out across the landscape around them, his eyes tearing up again as the misty grey, twilit lands around them blurred into a fog through his eyes.

"Thank you for filling the place that my father never filled," he said, his voice cracking, a smile breaking out on his lips through the tears streaming down his cheeks.

Aragorn smiled as well, helping him to his feet. "You are welcome," he walked alongside his Steward, as Faramir leaned subconsciously against his shoulder, relieving some of the weight on his damaged leg.

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Their rest that night was undisturbed, and Aragorn, much to Faramir's chagrin, had insited on watching the whole time so that his friend could sleep.

When morning came, Faramir's eyes flickered open to the pale light of dawn.

"How are you this morning?" Aragorn asked. He'd been sitting nearby, leaning against a tree, blowing smoke rings from his pipe.

Faramir looked up at him and smiled. "I am well, Aragorn," he said, "Let us go home."

And so, within a few moments, they did that very thing. Their bedrolls were strapped to the saddles, and King and Steward mounted up together, beginning the ride back to their city, putting the past behind them as they rode off into the silver mist of the morning.

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_THE END_

_Authour's note: _

_I know this wasn't supposed to be up until May 26, but I finished it, so I wanted to post it now. _

_My first oneshot, finished! What do you guys think? Sorry about the spoilers for 'A Tale of Two Rangers,' but at least you don't have to worry about Faramir dying in that one. Well, you never really need to, until the last volume in the series, when, inevitably, he will die. Such is the fate of mortal men, the Gift of Eru Iluvatar to his younger children..._

_Anyway, off on a tangent again. This is basically where Faramir begins thinking of Aragorn as more than a friend, but as a father figure in his life. There will be less formality after this, obviously. _

_And... I just hope I got everything right!_

_See you all soon, and thank you for reading!_

_Namaarie,_

_Luthien_


End file.
